


always running with these legs going nowhere.

by orphan_account



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>much like Bunny and Rome, Henry and Francis share a few weeks in Paris. probable au, but more than likely set in the years before the Secret History is written.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always running with these legs going nowhere.

In Paris, on the third day of three weeks, Francis watches Henry deteriorate before his very eyes. It’s hot, yes, with wavering lines of hallucination rising from the pavement, but Henry spends the first two days with his shirt sleeves rolled up, sunglasses clipped to the bridge of his steel-rimmed spectacles, wandering the streets and admiring the architecture with relish and even smiling down at him sometimes. Then he just… rolls over, sheets stuck to his skin, and oh God Francis recognises that look. The sweat on his forehead isn’t warm, on the contrary, when he reaches out a thin hand to brush his hair back from his eyes, he’s clammy and cool. Naked and vulnerable without his glasses, the scar angry and bright white on pain-pale skin, and Francis swallows down his own whimper when Henry makes a small, low noise of pain. They all forget that he’s as young as the rest of them, and his childhood stolen from this accident which still won’t let him go. Not now, not Francis, who swings his legs over the side of the low bed - close to the floor, to keep them cool, and crosses the room to draw the thin drapes and fling the window open.

“What are you doing?” Quiet, gravelly, thick with hurt. “Don’t open the curtains, Francis.” As if Francis is actually dimwitted, is Bunny. Francis realises with a shock that Bunny would have opened the curtains, would have hurt Henry’s weakened eyes. Instead of snapping at him, he makes what he hopes is a soothing noise in the back of his throat as he turns. “Hush, now, you’ll make your head worse.” Smooth, quiet, deep deep in his chest so that he doesn’t hurt Henry’s ears, and it’s gratifying to watch his features slowly relax again, narrow eyes slipping shut as he lays back on the bed. Francis leaves the bedroom only once, to call the porter and explain what they need to him, and meets him at the door with his arms full of clean sheets, ice water, fresh fruit and lemon sorbet. He changes the bedclothes while attending to Henry in the large copper bathtub, pouring him glass after glass of water and making him eat something - “please, Henry, and then you can take your pills and get back into bed,” “I’m not a damn invalid, Francis,” all thick Missouri accent as he had obeyed - then gently, so gently washing his hair as Henry had stretched and whined and then purred like a large, dangerous cat. Helps him get back into bed without making his own pain, his own worry, too obvious, and sits crosslegged next to him to spoon the sorbet into their mouths. This, Henry doesn’t seem to have a problem with, propping himself up on pillows and blinking slowly in the gloom.

“May I have my glasses, please, Francis.” And of course he obeys, putting the spoon in his mouth as he leans down to fetch them. Henry gives him a serious, rumpled around the edges look. “You can leave me here by myself. I don’t want you to miss out. I expect the sun has made things a little worse for me.” Which… isn’t what Francis had expected. He shakes his head, lifts Henry’s hand to kiss his knuckles, and smiles. “I might go out tomorrow with my sketchpad, if you’re not well still, but I’m not going to just abandon you for the entire time we’re here.” He speaks so softly, so afraid of that wincing glancing pain he’s seen Henry exhibit so many times. “That wasn’t the point. I don’t care if I don’t see any of Paris.”

As it is, he does leave the next day. Makes sure there’s a jug of water next to the bed, and a plate of small sweet biscuits next to it with Henry’s pills lined up and ready for him. Sits in the Luxembourg Gardens and draws and draws and draws for hours, only returning when the light starts to darken around him and he starts to shiver. He’s surprised, when he slides his key in the door, fingers grey with graphite, to find Henry dressed and sat up with a book in his lap. There’s still the faint evidence of pain there - in the wrinkle between his eyes, the set of his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth and the stiffness in his smile as he stands and opens one arm to Francis. “I’ve surprised myself,” he explains, mouth against Francis’ temple, “I missed your bedside manner awfully, today.” So Francis lays down, curls around Henry, head on his shoulder and his notebook spread across their laps as he points out the people and buildings he’d seen. Henry falls asleep like that, still in his shoes and jacket, face turned in to Francis’ hair and breathing slow and even. Tightens his grip, even in slumber, when Francis tries to wriggle away. The boy sighs, smiles, lays his head back down and decides then and there that he never wants to go home.


End file.
